Days of war (nights of love)
by TheGameMrsHudsonIsAfoot
Summary: A collection of short stories revolving around Sherlock and John's relationship, dedicated to all my friends who are that way inclined. Chapter three: Pirates and doctors: Dedicated to johnsarmylady for her extremely bee-lated birthday.
1. War and love

**War and Love**

"Sherlock."

If you had asked me at the time why I was marching through the city in such grim determination, (the limp may come and go, but I will forever be a military man) I couldn't have told you. Looking back now, I think I understand, despite my difficulty in coming to terms with it. Some, like Mike Stamford, claim I was flying to meet my fate. I don't believe that. I can tell you now, hand on heart, I had no idea that day was going to be any different from the one before, or the one before that, or the one before that.

No. I was on the run from my old life.

The future, my future, was the unasked question on everyone's lips. The tragic hero is supposed to win the fight, get the girl and live happily ever after. We claim we don't believe in fairytale endings, but my battle raged on without me and I came back from the land of the dead to realise we never really let go. Faced with stark reality, we, as people, cannot bear to believe someone can go through so much and be left with so little. We demand karmic retribution from our higher power.

Here lies John Watson.

Loyal soldier, dedicated doctor, I was lucky enough to survive and I squander the privilege by drifting through my own existence like a ghost before my time.

What a disappointment.

And then I met Sherlock. The world's only Consulting Detective. The devil with the dark curls. I thought for a long time I was just another idiot to him, (everyone else is) but he has since claimed he saw potential in me from the very beginning and he was out to prove it. With his piercing eyes capable of seeing into the depths of your very soul if only you let him, he opened me up and took me apart piece by piece and read the entire sad little story of my life with no end carved into my heart.

And he set it on fire.

He tore page after page from my past, dropped a match on the kindling of rage and self-pity and routine and as flames engulfed everything I had ever been, he laughed. In just over thirty-six hours I met him, I rose from the ashes to each and every one of his expectations, and I've been rising ever since. He even got rid of my limp. He does bloody like to show off. He saw straight through me, no false hope and forced cheerfulness like the others, and offered me the one thing I needed. Danger.

Of course at the time I didn't realise what else he was offering me.

The first time I met Mycroft, he told me I wasn't haunted by the war. I missed it. He was right. (I hate to admit it but the posh git usually is.) In the eyes of the Holmes brothers, the streets of London, driven by rain and the deepest, dirtiest desires of the discontented masses, are a battleground. Sherlock moves among the victorious and the wounded and the dying, unravelling the shadows they leave. I am his loyal soldier, sworn to protect and serve the man who could topple empires with a well-placed word if he chose.

But if the days are like war, the nights are something else entirely.

Sherlock will scorn sentiment with a sneer but the truth is written all over his face as he dances under the midnight sun. He burns up with passion for what he does. The gravity of his pupils blown like black holes drinking in stars and supernovas is irresistable. The dim light caresses his curls, slashes his cheekbones, spills onto those ridiculous cupid-bow lips that open to preach the wisdom of the universe as only he can see it. Not the light of angels, no, but something undefinable and infinitely more powerful.

I'm falling in love.

"I'm coming undone."

* * *

**I'm in love with people in all their infinite complexities. We have such staggering depths of heart and mind to contemplate the mysteries of the universe, where we came from and why we are here. It's a crazy condition. I love those half-dreaming hours that come along now and then when you're so entirely in your own world that your thoughts ascend to a higher plane and ****_if only you could just put them into words_**** you know damn well you would be as poignant as Hemingway, as eloqant as Shakespeare and as crazy as Kerouac... revelations flying at you right left and centre... and then the housework or the toaster or the dog snaps you out of it and you're back to your usual clumsy cluster of matter you inhabit. But in the back of your mind, just for a while, you have a nagging feeling that for a moment you understood all of that and more, and you were a part of something infinite.**


	2. Tick Tock

**Tick Tock**

Sherlock didn't like to complain. Of course there was a _certain someone_ that claimed otherwise but that _certain someone_ was always the one doing something worth complaining about so that _certain someone _could just shut his pretty mouth. Ahem.

It had been a rather satisfying day chasing criminals through the streets of London, which culminated in solving a tricky little case in five hours flat. It was followed by a _very_ satisfying meal at Angelos with everyone pretending not to notice he skipped dinner and consumed a black coffee with too much sugar and a slice of rich, creamy celebratory cheesecake. On returning to Baker Street he had engaged in a _deeply _satisfying kiss.

It was a ritual he had become familiar with over the past few years. A craving deeper than almost any other he had known that he was ever-impatient to indulge in. This kiss, like so many others but just as sweet, spoke of tenderness in the chaste meeting of the lips, of familiarity as those lips parted and melted into each other, and the promise of things to come in the grasp of hair, the naughty little swipe of the tongue and the embarrassing breathy groan answered with a snort and good-natured giggle.

And then John spoiled everything.

And of course Sherlock just had to complain.

"John!"

"Now, don't over-react..."

"When have I ever over-reacted to anything? We made a deal! I don't see what on earth could have possibly possessed you to break it."

"I thought for a special occasion like this I could..."

"You thought you could buy me a birthday present?" Sherlock accused, pointing dramatically at John and narrowing his eyes.

_Uh oh._

With his incredible powers of deduction, it took him mere moments to realise his petulance may in fact have been a _bit not good. _He watched as his darling doctor drew himself up to his full (and rather diminutive) height, squared his shoulders and opened that pretty, sweary, formidable little mouth of his.

_Don't flinch._

"Sherlock bloody Holmes, today marks forty years since the day you came kicking and screaming into this world just like everybody else and being the insufferable sod you are I find it hard to believe you've made it this far. It is not my fault every gift you've ever bought for me has been so inappropriate or downright bloody dangerous _you_ decided against the idea entirely. I've saved your life more than once and I'm a bit invested in it so if I want to buy you a birthday present I will buy you a bloody birthday present, _is that clear?"  
_  
"...John?"

"I need to catch my breath."

"Okay."

"_Okay?_"

"Okay."

Properly chastened and almost a little bit meek, Sherlock accepted the box wrapped in subtle silver before John could change his mind and throw it at him instead, neatly peeling away the tape and unfolding the corners.

-

_The sound wrapped itself around his mind and permeated his thoughts. It set his atoms vibrating to the core, his body thrumming in answer as they reached out, seeking to occupy the same space in the universe as that steady rhythm beating out its own existence. It was raw and deep and primal._

_An ancient memory was struggling to surface, twenty-nine years and a thousand endless moments of self-annihilation and regret and redemption ago. _

_And suddenly he had it._

_"Tick tock."_

_Sherlock felt John jerk out of his doze, clearly gathering his wits to pretend he had been awake all along, though he had snored in a low rumble for the last five minutes._

_"Sh'lock?"_

_It had been a peaceful night. It was a rarity in the Holmes-Watson household and one they were both grateful of. Exhausted from too many days on a case, damp and a little bit flushed from the shower and warm in front of the fire, the last thing he remembered was sprawling out with his head on John's chest._

_It was the crackle of the flames. The patter of the rain. The sound of a heart beating._

_"When I was young..." He paused awkwardly. He felt as though they were in a dream, not self-conscious about his words, but the very act of sharing his memories. John's patient silence said more words. "When I was young I inherited my grandfather's pocket watch."_

_"It was an heirloom." His pale fingers danced in the light of the fire as he spoke, unconsciously shaping the relic and recalling every last detail of the engraving. "Heavy and intricate, like it was lost in time."_

_"On nights when father was away on business, mummy was in bed with a migraine and Mycroft was shaping the future of the country," He allowed himself a wry smile, "I would take it to the library and sit in front of the fire. When I was too tired to read anymore I would open it and,"_

_He paused again._

_"Tick tock."_

_Yes, he remembered all too well._

_"I used to imagine, for a moment, it was the sound of a heartbeat. There was someone just there, out of reach, watching over me. Someone..."_

_He trailed off._

_And when just enough time had passed he thought John might have drifted off again, laying his head back down to comfort himself with the steady rise and fall of his chest, his little love spoke._

_Five simple words._

-

He opened the watch in his hands in a moment of awe.

It wasn't the original. Even his savvy soldier wasn't _that_ good. He hadn't asked what had happened to it and for that Sherlock was grateful.

This was new.

"It's rather elaborate." He said dismissively.

It was a work of art.

Pale silver that caught the light and elegant engraving.

It was beautiful.

"And quite impractical."

It was made by one of the finest watchmakers in London. He noticed the special attention paid to the thick glass and reinforced chain unlikely to break on the case. Of course Sherlock was sure it was intended for special occasions but only last year the mayor of London's private dinner party had turned into a real murder mystery.

"Not very fitting."

It was an antique frame with modern parts.

Lost in time, but doing an indispensible job, and beloved by those with the right tastes.

Oh, he understood.

"I'm glad you like it, love." John answered with a knowing smile. "Turn it over."

And he saw it in the engraving.

Five little words.

_My heart beats for you._

No, Sherlock didn't like to complain.

It was a crime that John Watson had stolen the heart out of him, but he had given his own right back.

* * *

**You might be too late to write something for Mapleleaf Cameo's birthday now (because it's already your birthday in China MLC!) but you could go and leave a stunning review on her story 'Private Universe' because that's exactly what it is, stunning (and it inspired this little tale.) In fact, anything she has written. In fact, why are you still here?! **

**She is one of the kindest, strongest, craziest, loveliest most evil (LOL) queen bees around!**

**Happy birthday MLC! **


	3. Pirates and doctors

Oh, he'd done it this time.

His darling doctor was actually going to kill him.

This probably wasn't the best time to point out _he _started it.

"You know I wasn't planning on it, and really, matters would have been far worse if it had happened to anyone else..." Sherlock stated matter-of-factly, clearing his throat and wondering (not for the first time) if John was going to punch him. "... and if you think about it, none of this would have happened in the first place if you hadn't insisted on the eye patch."

It really wasn't his fault. At least, it wasn't entirely his fault. They had all expected him to get into the spirit and in that respect, he thought with a touch of self-righteousness, he couldn't have done a better job.

-

It all started so innocently.

Sherlock had demanded John promise never to buy him a birthday present as long as they lived, John paid about as much attention as he usually did to Sherlock's eclectic and often seemingly arbitrary rules and bought one anyway, and he was rewarded with a detective more appreciative than he would ever admit.

Was it at this point John started to wonder what else could corrupt Sherlock's singular mind?

Over the course of the year, they tried take-out from Islington to Indonesia but Sherlock protested food was, as it had always been, boring. He was more vocal about science fiction and had more than one shouting match with the telly over the Doctor's _ridiculous sentimental streak, John,_ came to deeply dislike Star Wars because _the Galactic Empire was woefully misunderstood, John, _but he had been rather keen to see the new Star Trek movie _for research purposes, John. _

He had surprised no one more than himself over developing a taste for dark rum (despite his complaints the morning after.) With this in mind, and Sherlock's next birthday looming on the calendar, John planned the latest in his little series of experiments with nervous and gleeful anticipation.

Code name: Drink up me hearties, yo ho.

-

Let us pause in our story for a moment to appreciate the beauty of the Thames at night. In the right spot the water, as dark as a cold January night except for the swathes of gold painted on the surface from nearby street lights, allows the weary city-dweller a reprieve from the hustle and bustle of the crowds until morning. You should know before we continue it is a beautiful backdrop for less-than-classy shenanigans that went on during the night.

-

"Molly... you look, um... wow." John cleared his throat, realised his eyes were wandering, and surreptitiously stood to attention. _Eyes front, soldier. _She had been the easiest of the lot to convince, dear girl, and he suspected he was far more flattered than Sherlock would be over the hours she had obviously spent on her wonderfully themed and wildly inappropriate costume. "Thanks John..." She blushed, stumbling off and leaving a trail of brightly coloured feathers in her wake, "... but tonight it's Polly."

Greg was on her heels and Mycroft a moment behind him. John, expecting him not to come at all despite cornering him in the Diogenes club and fixing him with _the look,_ had to bite back a smirk and settle at the last moment for a politely puzzled expression. "Mycroft, tell me... are you... are you wearing eyeliner?" The elder Holmes made a soft noise of discontent and answered in a voice just a little bit too dignified to be a protest, "Anthea thought it would bring out my eyes."

"Mrs Hudson, let me get you a drink." He offered as their landlady finally arrived though she waved away his offer and trilled, "Thank you dear, but there's at least one handsome man here capable of fetching me a gin and tonic, and the guest of honour is on his way."

The guest of honour.

The man of the hour.

Sherlock.

He hadn't thought that level of physical perfection (though he would never dare make that remark to anyone else ever because, come on, he would never hear the end of it) could be improved upon, but with a pirate hat set rakishly on his dark curls, a fake sword at his hip (at least he hoped the sword was fake) and the eye patch (what was wrong with him that he liked the eye patch oh so much?) Sherlock Holmes was a vision.

And he was almost spitting in fury.

"The ridiculous childish scavenger hunt was bad enough John, like I didn't know what you were planning before you sent me running all over London looking for these," John's face was deadpan as Sherlock stormed up in full costume and waved a stuffed parrot violently at him, "but did you even for a moment in that tiny mind of yours think that I would enjoy a _party?"  
_  
John heaved a long-suffering sigh in response, giving his lanky love just long enough to come to his senses and look around at his motley collection of friends dressed like a rag-tag band of sailors, staring disdainfully or biting back giggles, and pushed a drink into his hand.

"Shut up and get on the boat, Sherlock."

-  
_  
_"That's it dear, just a small one. And a splash more. Perfect." Mrs Hudson cooed amiably, the eye studying the gin bottle in Mycroft's hand slightly less steady than it had been two drinks ago. Mycroft, for his part, would not lower himself to the role of common bartender for almost anyone in England, but he was in equal parts silently fond and secretly terrified of Martha Hudson and her iron will, and he could endure her harmless, though slightly too admiring glances to hear her talk. And he absolutely was not avoiding anyone.

"So dear, why are you avoiding Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

A lesser man may have sprayed his mouthful of whiskey all over the artfully decorated table, but Mycroft in his composure managed to gulp it down painfully and fix her with a stern look. "My dear woman, I assure you I..."

"... have been running circles around a very small boat for the last forty minutes." She answered firmly. "Now Mr Holmes, let's talk facts. Gregory is a rather handsome man, and you've obviously made an effort tonight. Neither of you look bad in a pair of leather boots..." Mycroft watched in fascination as she snapped out of a brief and clearly enjoyable trance "... and people go for all sorts these days, look at Sherlock! I never thought that boy would have a roll in the hay in his entire life." She gave the sulking pirate, who was slowly forgetting to scowl, and his first mate for the evening a sidelong glance and looked at him pointedly. "You and I both know you won't be satisfied until you've tried, so go."

You have to hand it to our Martha, many a great man had failed to make the tip of Mycroft's ears glow like the smoked salmon on the canapés, nor had they reduced him to such a stunned silence.

-

"You'd think the most depressing thing I'd ever pulled out of the Thames would be a body, but you'd be wrong." Greg burped softly without turning around as he realised someone was standing behind him. "It's rubbish. People just use things up and throw them away and don't give a damn about what comes next. It's sad, you know."

Giving him a once-over as he stood staring forlornly out at the water, Mycroft noted the left hand (a tell-tale sign that no hint of gold caught the light) and the half-finished beer and drew his astute conclusion. "You want to throw your beer bottle into the river, don't you Gregory?"

"Oh god yes."

"Do it."

"What?" Greg answered in a rather snappish tone, pulling his red paisley bandana off and scruffing his hair in a compulsive movement. "You aren't going to pull rank on me and call for my resignation for breaking a law? I didn't realise the British Government could afford to take a night off."

Maybe, just maybe Mycroft was a little bit overwhelmed, taken aback by the accusation and caught up in the scent of bay rum and tea and tobacco, with just a hint of dark chocolate and leather from those irresistible buckled boots, and maybe, just maybe it explained why he reached over the rusted railings without a second thought and threw the crystal-cut tumbler as hard as he could.

Gaping at him in his masterfully tattered garments for a moment, Greg snorted in laughter and drew his arm back, throwing the empty bottle as hard as he could into the spray of the water. When they finally controlled themselves and stopped sniggering like schoolboys (Mycroft didn't get tipsy, of course, but if he did this might be an awful lot like what it looked like) they leaned back and Greg gestured to the front of the boat. "How did they get so lucky, eh?" He complained as they watched Sherlock enthusiastically decide it was his turn to steer the boat and John valiently try to dissuade him. "I'm not talking to the right man though, am I? You don't care."

Mycroft's cheeks flushed the delicate red of strawberry sorbet after a lavish meal as he stuttered, (yes, actually stuttered) "A-actually..."

-

"Martha Elizabeth Hudson!" Greg burped boozily in the older woman's face, covering his mouth and muttering, "'scuse me," before he remembered why he had come to talk to her. "You should know I am a pronime- a promime- an important member of the community and I have a reputation to protect, and you can't just go around telling people I'm gay!"

"Oh no, dear, I would never say that!" Mrs Hudson answered innocently, looking completely unperturbed by his wildly flailing arms.

"Oh." He answered, dropping them abruptly and frowning suspiciously at her. "But..."

"I just told Mycroft you would make a lovely couple."

"But... I'm... I'm not gay!"

"That is exactly what John used to say."

Greg opened his mouth, realised he didn't have an argument for that, shut it again with a snap and managed to splutter indignantly, "Well, then, I'm not interested in Mycroft."

"Are you sure?" She asked, eyeing him rather beadily and sighing in resignation, looking entirely more disappointed than she had any right to be in his opinion. "That's a shame. In that case, there's a rather skimpily-dressed pathologist about to fall overboard if that's more your cup of tea."

-

"Alright love... come on... there we go." Greg grunted, lifting Molly from her precarious perch in an armful of soft curves and gauze and plonking her unceremoniously onto her feet, too far gone to wonder just how or why she made it up onto the railings to start with. "What's the matter, eh?"

She lifted her arms with a rather crestfallen look and trailed her useless wings, empty cocktail glass still in hand, mumbling, "Sherlock... my costume... he said..."

"I can imagine what he said." The detective inspector cut her off darkly in an attempt to avoid her repeating the slur, aware of the comments Sherlock thought were perfectly acceptable despite John's repeated attempts to socialise him (and Greg was a silver fox if anyone was asking, not prematurely grey thank-you-very-much) though he was taken aback as the sadness was chased off her face by utter mortification. "What?"

"You don't like it either?" She asked in a tiny voice.

"It's very... small..." He answered hesitantly, glancing down at the elaborate creation of feathers and lace and trying not to think about what she would think if she knew what he was actually thinking, though he added hastily as she started to stammer, "but nice." Was he being too reluctant? "It's lovely?" He sounded like he was asking her opinion now, or even maybe like he was being sarcastic, and when did he ever use the word lovely? "You look beautiful."

Satisfied he had found a combination of words that weren't too back-handed or trite, he looked back up at her face and realised she was blushing harder than he had ever seen her blush, or indeed anyone. "You think I'm beautiful?"

Indeed, despite the misunderstanding Greg had been thinking along those lines (and some rather less pure) since the fateful Christmas Molly had turned up to 221B in her frankly _bone_-tight black dress, and finally given the opportunity to say so, he opened his mouth. Unfortunately for them both this isn't their love story, and Molly chose that moment to sway uncertainly, open her mouth even wider and vomit copiously all over his boots.

At least, after all the cocktails, the colour matched her outfit.

-

"I know what you're trying to do!" Sherlock accused dramatically, sweeping over with his hat askew and spilling at least two-thirds of his rum and coke over his sleeve as he pointed at Mrs Hudson. "You're match-making again, aren't you?"

"You're not up to your usual standards if it took you this long to notice, my love." Martha answered serenely, patting the seat next to her and withdrawing as he collapsed into it. "And why shouldn't I? Your friends deserve to be as happy as you are."

"No they don't. Mycroft loves being miserable. It's his hobby." He answered loudly, looking around for his brother and deflating when he realised the elder Holmes wasn't in earshot. "And anyway, you had nothing to do with John and I-"

"- falling in love?" She answered with a disapproving cluck of the tongue before he could say something far more crude. "You might be surprised, Sherlock, I had tricks you've never even thought of in my day. Though I have to say, you and John are giving it a good try. So I've... heard."

Not enough social graces or sense left to blush, he answered with a toothy grin, "You aren't allowed to tell him in a hundred years because I would be excellent at covering up a murder, but I think he's the perfect man. He smells like sweat and adventure."

"Well dear," She answered briskly, cocking her eyebrow and nodding at his doctor-turned-sailor basking against the railings with a knowing look in her eyes, "What on earth are you doing talking to me? Go and get him, off you go."

And, staring over at John intensely for a moment in which he may or may not have lavishly licked his lips, Sherlock seized her in a wordless embrace of gratitude and _off he went_.

Unfortunately it may have been the hem of his coat trailing or it may have been the excessive amounts of rum and coke or it may have even been the eye patch, but in lunging forward like a horny teenager to kiss his beloved, Sherlock failed for once to deduce the distance between them and the length of his stride and the uneven flooring and, look, he'll deny it to the ends of the earth but he tripped, okay?

-

In my role as impromptu tour guide I would like to draw your attention again to the Thames for a moment. It's true, the river is a spot of beauty (provided you turn a blind eye to the bodies, shopping trollies and occasional whale that wash up now and then) but it is also, on a late night in winter, _quite cold._

Before you start worrying, you can rest assured that John is an excellent swimmer. Sherlock made a point never to swim in front of him, or anyone really, after some cruel and rather well-observed comments from his high-school swim team about 'drowning grasshoppers'. John on the other hand, with his compact frame and military muscle, was made for the water.

And Sherlock maintains that he absolutely _did not push him in _to admire his technique, though his brain is ticking away in the background thinking up lots and lots of new experiments involving John in water.

-

"You pushed me into the Thames!" John shouted at his shifty-looking sweetheart, struggling out of the sodden striped jumper Sherlock loved so much and stomping over to wring it out in the sink, demanding, "What do you have to say for yourself?"

"Well you see I think the eye patch which you made me wear might have affected my depth perception and I didn't realise you were standing so close to the railing which you realise is quite stupid to start with John, and really the fact that we were on a boat at all was frankly ridiculous, I don't know what you were thinking..." Sherlock answered very rapidly in a small voice, though he had a feeling even if he could put his usual energy into complaining he wasn't going to get away with it this time.

Were his shoulders shaking in laughter, or was that anger? Of course, he wasn't being emotional, he was just cold. In fact, if the water had been much colder, it could have made him seriously ill. He was probably well on his way to a nasty cold as it was. And, Sherlock supposed, even if he hadn't meant it that probably was just a little teeny tiny bit his fault.

"I'm sorry!" He blurted, and scowled immediately as John turned to face him, stern but clearly struggling not to grin at the same time.

"What are you going to do to make it up to me?" His tiny trooper asked, and he was just opening his mouth to complain that he, Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, was not going to barter for forgiveness and do anything as mundane as washing dishes and anyway, if anyone was going to sulk _he was going to get there first _when he realised just what his sultry soldier had in mind.

_Oh._

"I," He answered in a dignified voice, realising he was giving up some of his reluctance by staring hungrily at John, "will be your doctor for the rest of the week. Well, for tomorrow. And I think I'm supposed to start by warming you up."

And, with that sexy swagger that made Sherlock's knees go weak despite his chattering teeth, John reached up and stole his hat, answering, "Only if this time, I get to be the pirate."

-

(If Mrs Hudson notices the state of the bathroom, what with the make up and the torn shower curtain and the inexplicable smell of rum and strawberries, Sherlock and John respectfully ask you not to say a word.)

* * *

**Oh dear.**

Almost a month late is better than never, isn't it? I'm sorry! Have a lovely (bee-lated) birthday JAL, you absolutely wonderful person, I hope you enjoyed it :-)

This may be the strangest thing I've ever written!


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